


flora & fauna

by yehetno



Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: M/M, angsty fluff, have you ever had a fic defeat you?, how to describe?, i was unsuccessful, is that a genre?, it's not well written enough to be called pining, king is out here trying his best, my goal: i wantedthem to be cute, ruj is my favorite & i did not do him justice, there are some bg ships if you squint but like don'texpect development., um, zoo & botanical garden AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehetno/pseuds/yehetno
Summary: the new big cat handler is very intense.(king tries his hardest to turn that frown upside down.)
Relationships: King/Ram (My Engineer)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 220





	flora & fauna

**Author's Note:**

> if you've ever seen that paparazzi pic of ben affleck smoking on a balcony looking absolutely HAGGARD, that is what writing this has done to me. i could probably write an essay of comparable length with everything i don't like about this but-- i can't work on this anymore. to give you some perspective, normally, i draft & edit within ao3, but i had to open up WORD for this... disgusting.
> 
> i edited. i proofread. there are probably typos or missed words. idk if i can read through this again. sorry. i'm sorry.
> 
> moving forward:
> 
> \-- they are aged up to their mid to late twenties  
> \-- king & frong are plant ppl because obviously. if you read it, you'll figure out who does what.  
> \-- takes place over a few months
> 
> if you've been following the non-hype of me trying write this, oh boy i'm sorry. woo boy. yikes. it's something. i guess.
> 
> king is your pov character, so like, you'll have to try your best to figure out what's going on with everyone else.

King tries to be helpful when possible, which to this point, has never really ruffled any feathers or caused harm to any toes. It has served him well throughout his life to be overtly friendly and reach out to even the prickliest of people. Being nice and friendly hurts no one and keeps him feeling calm and happy even. He can say with confidence that most, if not all, of his coworkers like him as a person outside of his capacity helping to maintain the gardens. (That is saying something given how big their zoo is, and how little Frong does to help the botanical department’s image.)

He walks down the path leading away from the administrative center, visually checking over the landscaping work. He makes a mental note to tell Bohn to thank to rest of the groundskeeping crew for accommodating his request to have the ambient greenery tie into the exhibits located nearby.

He stops cold in his tracks when he sees a stranger staring at one of the guest maps. The zoo isn’t open yet. King does not recognize this man. He has a vague sense of what _everyone_ who works here looks like, and this man with this look is hardly forgettable.

A tattoo on the man’s neck draws King’s attention first; a large dreamcatcher spans down the length of his neck, starting just behind his ear and stopping just above the collar of his shirt. He carries a bag, its thick strap held onto his shoulder, secured by the man’s thumb pulling it taut. His profile strikes King as elegant; a borderline shallow thought King almost immediately shuns away.

King takes a tentative step toward the stranger and clears his throat loudly, “Excuse me.”

He turns and offers a blank, disinterested stare at King. Strong eyebrows sit above deep-set eyes, offering balance to his angular face. They stand in silence; King waits to be verbally acknowledged, but as the seconds slowly reach the minute mark, he recognizes that he won’t get a response.

“Are you new?”

No response.

“Do you need help?”

Nothing. The man’s face is still unflinchingly neutral, almost bored.

King smiles politely and uses both hands to gesture down the path to the administrative building. He tries to offer information he thinks would be helpful, “The ‘Welcome Center’ is that way.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly, intimating that he doesn’t see any value in the information that King is providing. There are only a handful of times before this moment that, King has felt so exasperated with another human being.

“I can walk you there,” he suggests.

A frown. The man shakes his head. In the time that King takes to decide on how offended he should be, he is left alone, otherwise unacknowledged, watching as the new employee skirts past him purposefully. King watches him disappear down the fork in the trail, wondering which department brought a new person onto their team. 

Curiosity takes root in his brain. Many questions float to the surface about his demeanor and his impression of King, but the one that sticks out and the one that King wants an immediate answer to is simple: _what is his name?_

//

King scrolls through his emails, finding himself disappointed that he cannot find any new emails from Boss. Normally, when new people join the “family”(as Boss usually phrases it in his long-winded and sentimental emails), Boss takes it upon himself to push out introductory information along with a time and place for a welcoming party.

He could walk up to Guest Services and ask Boss upfront about _him_. That carries risk, though, because Boss tends to meddle, something that he has never truly grown out of. Undeniably, King has been thinking, almost nonstop, about his encounter this morning. He wants to know how often he’ll be seeing this new person. Part of him hopes that he’s new to herpetology or entomology simply because he works closely with those teams to cultivate and maintain plants suitable to those habitats. Outside of insects and reptiles, King does not see that much of the zoo. 

He is already getting ahead of himself. He does not even have a name to work with. He knows nothing of _his_ personality or interests or quirks; he can make assumptions about a quiet, nonverbally communicative person with a highly visible tattoo. He should not be so intrigued.

Yet.

Frong snaps in front of his face, clearly impatient in his expression. “I’m going to grab lunch at the canteen. Are you coming with?”

King bites his lips, looking at his computer monitor then back up at Frong. With a heavy sigh, he nods. Another hour in suspense will not kill him; four hours without a name shouldn’t have pestered him this much regardless.

On their way out, King flips the office sign: _page in case of plant emergency._

Frong fusses with his hair as they walk. After six positive confirmations that he looks fine, he starts complaining about how dirty his pants have gotten before the day is half-over. King nods quietly in agreement. (He has learned it best to let Frong work out his nerves on the front end of their lunch hour because part of their lunch overlaps with veterinary lunch slot. Frong malfunctions in front of Dr. Thara, and King finds no joy in seeing him drown in polite awkwardness.)

They quietly head toward the lunch counter, piling food onto their plates; Frong continuously glances over his shoulder. King shakes his head fondly, if only Frong could externalize his softness and verbalize his feelings.

Bohn slides next to King as he waits behind his coworker to pay for his food. “There’s a new guy,” he whispers, uncouth and clumsy in his eagerness to share.

“I know,” King replies, stepping into Frong’s place and handing over his employee ID.

Bohn looks affronted, “You know?”

King nods and thanks the man behind the register, peeling away from the line and from his best friend. He prepares himself to hear Bohn complain about King not saying anything sooner. After that, Bohn will probably opine on his ever-growing lovely feelings for Duen.

King weaves through open tables, settles into his favorite chair at his normal table. There is a window that extends from the floor to the ceiling and it overlooks the main path of grounds. It makes his day when he glances out of the corner of his eye to catch a visitor admiring the greenery and reading the informational plaques on specific subspecies of the many florae.

“How do you already know?” Bohn asks with more specificity, nearly slamming his tray down onto the table. He unclips his walkie from his belt and places it on the table.

A sigh escapes King. He glances up at his friend, “How do you know?”

“Ha,” Bohn clips humorlessly at his non-answer.

King picks up a spoon and pushes it through his curry, fork in the other hand helping pile meat onto the spoon. He ignores his friend, not yet sure how to properly string together words to accurately reflect his encounter this morning. He only has descriptive words for his new coworker: _handsome, mysterious, quiet, stern, alluring._ Nothing he has to say is professional and leaves his dignity open to righteous impeachment.

Bohn glares and turns, “Frong, do you know about the new guy?”

Frong’s head snaps back into place as he tries to pretend that he wasn’t looking over his shoulder and trying to catch a glimpse of Thara. He squeaks, “Hm?”

Bohn lets out a labored and annoyed exhale, “I need to go get utensils. Get your act together, Frong.”

King’s eyes follow Bohn, watching him sulk with hunched shoulders, walking unnaturally to get his utensils.

He gets distracted almost instantly; it’s _him_. How exciting. A rush of giddiness pulses through King’s chest. They make eye contact. It makes him smile and raise a hand to wave; he is downright eager to make forward progress and become something more than strangers.

For however briefly transfixed he was, something jolts King’s stranger. He looks away, offering no expression in return to King. 

King draws his hand back to his side and looks at his food. He is unsure of what he expected; they have yet to exchange words. He imagines he will need to build a much stronger rapport before he gets anywhere close to the warmth that he hopes to inspire in this stranger. The absence of words, of mindless small talk, gives him some inclination of how he needs to foster that warmth; silence holds important information too.

“King!” Duen’s voice rings out, bright and kind and cheerful. It pulls him out of his thoughts. Duen stands, arms akimbo, smiling ear to ear, flanked by Thara and the stranger. 

King straightens his spine and sits taller, briefly stealing a look at his new coworker with the hopes of catching his eye once more. Duen continues, seemingly unaware of the sudden shift in King’s posture, “Frong! I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of the Big Cat team, my dearest Ram!”

Duen steps aside, rattling his hands excitedly as he presents _Ram_ to the table. Ram, for what it’s worth, looks deeply uncomfortable. King nods in acknowledgment, and Frong offers a half-wave. Duen’s smile falters as he brings his hands together, giggling nervously.

He almost speaks again, however, Bohn returns and tries to slick on the charm with a greasy, “Hey, Duen.”

Annoyance transforms Duen’s smile. He looks Bohn over once, lips pursed, “Ram, _this_ is Bohn.”

King cringes at the emphasis in Duen’s sentence and the way that it seems to fly straight over Bohn’s head. Bohn’s shy smile emerges just in time for Duen to jerk his thumb over his shoulder, “Let’s go. I’ve got more people to introduce you to.”

Bohn practically melts back into his seat, resting his chin against his hand, sighing, “He talked about me to the newbie already.”

“Do you think Thara noticed my pants?” Frong whispers, still fretting over his wardrobe. “He must think I’m a total slob.”

King doesn’t respond to either comment. They all exist in their own world’s right now regardless, he can take the moment to turn _Ram’s_ name over his head. He wonders what it means and what it would sound like for Ram to introduce himself. He lets his mind wander, curious about nearly every aspect of Ram’s life and what lead him here. He feels an expected twist of disappointment in his gut; he rarely has to maintain anything for the Big Cat displays. He wonders how amiable he and Duen are; Duen could probably more than supply all of the conversation between them. (He lacks the appropriate context to figure out why Duen called him “dearest”. It could mean anything coming from Duen.)

King quietly finishes his lunch. Bohn gets radioed part of the way through lunch, interrupting his long line of questions about how often and how much Duen talks about him with other people. The Elephant Paddock needs him to fix a water pump. Bohn grumbles under his breath that he’s just a glorified handyman at this point.

Ram.

It suits him, King thinks.

//

King’s finger lightly follows the narrow length of the waxy palm leaf. His fingertip catches lightly on the rough surface; he hums and smiles to himself. It is still healthy. That is all he can hope for the guest-facing flora. For as critical as the public visitors are to the finances of zoo and gardens, Ram has mixed emotions about them. They are particularly indifferent to the plant life that is not roped off, and no plant, no matter how common or unspectacular, deserves disrespect.

It is probably a weak lie for King to claim he is in this particular section of the grounds just to check on the viability of the shrubbery. When King tries to find an alternative explanation as to why the mammalian habitats are so magnetic to him now, especially the carnivorous, predatory, _large_ cat-like mammals, he comes up empty-handed. It always comes back to Ram. It is the fleeting hope that maybe they’ll brush past each other on the paths and share a cordial nod.

If he walks by at the right time, he might catch Ram ducking out of the lion enclosure, might be able to catch a better glimpse of the ink decorating his forearm. Maybe, Ram will be the guest-liaison, and King will be lucky enough to hear his voice curling around words as he explains how lions hunt to gawking visitors. 

Of course, the day has yet to officially begin, so he eventually doubles back and heads toward his gardens, disappointed yet unsurprised that he gets to do nothing but check on his greenery.

King continues to hum, occasionally vocalizing his unpredictable riff, softly offering comfort to his plain plants, offering them the attention and appreciation that the other more _unique_ plants readily receive from guests. He is careful and discerning with his touch; the shrubs and trees get the warm brush of his palm. Flowering plants, those feel his fingertips if he dares to reach out at all. Some plants hate being fussed with; they panic and wilt away, exhausted from receiving more than the sun and rain.

He stops at a figure, half crouched, phone out, taking photos.

Ram. He focuses on his phone, which is focused on a fully in-bloom vireya plant, its orange petals trumpeting out into a dark pink. King can detect the slightest smile, face soft, expression unguarded.

If King wasn’t already in a tangled mess of soft feelings, he might have felt his knees weaken. He silently approaches Ram; finding that it delights him, too much probably, that Ram has found a relatively unscathed native flower and appreciated it enough to photograph it.

“It’s a rhododendron, _vireya,”_ King supplies quietly, looking over Ram’s shoulder, looking at the unfiltered pictures of the flowers.

Ram doesn’t seem particularly surprised when he looks over his shoulder, doesn’t seem the slightest bit spooked by King’s stealth entry. King hears him pull in a soft breath; Ram rises to his full height and pockets his phone.

Ram nods affirmatively, a gesture of acknowledgment, _thanking_ him for sharing information.

It makes King’s heart vibrate. “You’re not much of a talker,” states King plainly.

Ram’s lips press into a hard line and his brow furrows. He looks away from King and starts walking down the path, likely heading toward the administrative center.

King chooses not the let it deter him. He has spent probably too many minutes of his spare time coming up with a thousand and one questions to ask Ram. Even if he supplies most of the conversation, the foundation of their relationship needs to start somewhere. He takes a few long strides to catch up to Ram, easily matching his pace.

For most of the walk to clock in, King lets the silence between them stay. He supposes it is a small step forward, the first step of what he hopes to be many, because Ram stays the course. He does not veer toward the edge of the sidewalk and almost walk on its edge to avoid King. The space that King offers, the quiet and unexpectant companionship, is enough to keep Ram in his orbit.

King looks out of the corner of his eye, drawn to the exposed sink on Ram’s forearm. It is geometric, a triangle and a wolf. He wonders how many tattoos Ram has and if they are all black and white with intricate shading between thick and detailed linework. That seems like a question for later, for when he and Ram can carry a full-bodied conversation.

It is good to be curious, emotionally, intellectually, and socially. Yet, King feels the heat of a shy embarrassment creep up his neck. His curiosity about Ram is on the verge of transforming; wondering about intimate thoughts and motivations, that’s—that is wandering into _infatuation_.

King clears his throat with the hope that it clears his mind. The noise draws Ram’s attention; Ram serves a nervous and cautious look of concern to King. 

King makes a half-hearted attempt at small talk, “Are you liking it here so far?”

Ram gives him a mechanical nod with wide and uneasy eyes.

King smiles and waves away his awkwardness, unwilling to engage with his own thoughts. He rambles, “Well, that’s great! I would have been surprised if you said something to the contrary. The people in your department are pretty nice, although I don’t spend as much time in your neck of the woods as I do in others.”

This time, Ram shrugs with indifference.

Ultimately, they fall back into silence. They wordlessly check-in and collect their respective devices; Ram pulls a radio off of a charging stand and carefully checks to make sure it is on the correct channel. King pockets his pager and smiles brightly at Ram once he watches his eye.

He waves at Ram and tells him: “I hope you have a great day. See you around!”

Ram tentatively raises a hand in response and dips his head, an unsure goodbye if King has ever seen one. However, the fact that Ram thought to respond to his bidding farewell lifts King’s spirits higher than he could have expected.

King practically skips all the way to the greenhouse to check in on his exotic plants. He could not wipe the smile off of his face even if he tried; all he can do to stop himself from twirling down the narrow aisles as he checks on his germlings and fussy plants.

Frong watches in mild disinterest, shaking his head.

//

He catches Bohn staring at something, expression focused and becoming increasingly troubled as he leans against the railing of the open-air patio.

King slides into position next to him and tries to follow his line of vision. It should not surprise him that Duen is the center of Bohn’s attention, especially when such a wide and genuine smile stretches across Duen’s face. His conversational partner stands with his back to the building, but King knows who it is without seeing a face. Ram holds himself in a distinctive way.

Something is different. King cannot quite pinpoint it, but maybe, it has to do with how _relaxed_ Ram seems to be in his conversation with Duen.

“Hey,” King offers to Bohn.

Bohn grunts, uncharacteristically quiet. King feels the storm brewing within Bohn.

He hears Duen’s full-throated laugh from where they stand watching. Bohn looks away as the corners of his mouth twist into a frown. He shifts his gaze toward King and bites his lips. Awkwardly, Bohn pulls in a pained breath, “You know, I thought I could tell when people didn’t like me.”

King places a comforting hand on Bohn’s shoulder and tries to ease Bohn away from making hasty assumptions, “Maybe, they know each other from before.”

King catches Ram in his peripheral, a hand is on Duen’s arm and his body twists away, revealing a wide smile. They must. Ram is quite comfortable in Duen’s presence.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything about you,” King quietly finishes telling his friend, hoping that there is a kernel of truth in his words. Smiling, unsurprisingly, suits Ram; it makes him softer and lighter, cuts away at the air of intimidation that constantly lingers around him. Someday, hopefully soon, King’s effort will be rewarded with a smile.

“King,” a quiet, defeated Bohn replies, “I know I’m dumb sometimes, but I’m not stupid. Even if there’s nothing deep going on there, Duen doesn’t smile at me like that.”

They linger without speaking, eventually Ram and Duen disappear from view, entering the building on the ground floor, probably coming up to eat just like King had intended to, probably like Bohn had.

A crackle comes over the radio on Bohn’s hip. Static and distance warp Mek’s voice, “Bohn, acknowledge.”

Bohn offers a bitter smile to King and shrugs, “I’ll deal with it, I guess.” He unclips his hardware and brings it up to his face as he walks away, tacitly acknowledging King’s wordless wave goodbye.

He ends up with a drink, sitting alone, trying to be subtle when he glances over at Ram and Duen; they have a very strong rapport. Ram uses words with Duen, and King isn’t sure how to process that information. He’ll ask Duen about it, how he got Ram to speak without him shutting down completely. 

(He would if Duen was seeing someone, right? He is a social butterfly, has his thumbs in many pies, is a crucial link in the gossip chain.)

//

It is fifth concerned email in a row from Tee in a row that prompts King to take it seriously. A flowering tree in the butterfly pavilion—Tee does _not_ know the taxonomy because he is an entomologist specializing in lepidopterology and _not_ a botanist—has something growing on it. He needs King or Frong, or well it needs to be one of them, to look at it.

Frong points out that Tee emailed King specifically and did not bother copying Frong on the email.

“You go,” Frong says without even looking at King. “The butterflies are an interactive and guest-facing area. Maybe one of them brought a harmful fungus into the environment. Or maybe, the tree is sick. If the butterflies go down because of the environment, Tee will strangle you.”

King opens his mouth to speak, but Frong raises a finger to stop him. “Plus, I have a scheduled appointment, so I really can’t be the flexible one here.”

“You have an appointment?”

Frong’s serious face breaks into a dreamy smile, “Dr. Thara needs my help identifying a plant because he’s concerned it is causing the gazelles intestinal discomfort.”

“Has he heard of a field guide?”

Frong fires off a glare in King’s direction, “You have a sick tree to diagnose.”

King exhales sharply and grabs his bag, making sure that his sampling kit is there. He grumbles as he talks past Frong’s workstation, “Didn’t know you got paid to flirt on the job.”

He doesn’t need to look to know the exact look of indignation that Frong is aiming at him. It takes him ten minutes to walk over to the butterfly pavilion, entering through the side entrance to avoid the guests waiting to walk through and see the colorful, gentle creatures floating freely.

He sighs as he tries to flag Tee down. Unfortunately, Tee has a butterfly on his fingers and is explaining the function of colorful patterning to a group of captivated children. King does not understand how the butterfly rests so calmly on Tee, how to sees him as anything but a threat, but it performs well, moving its wings slowly and remaining perched on Tee’s hand, at ease.

With the slightest movement, Tee encourages it to take a short and easy flight to a nearby leaf. The children giggle, and finally, Tee catches sight of him. He excuses himself from the group and walks over to King.

“Finally,” he sighs. He pulls King by the arm, taking him to a corner of the pavilion and points accusingly at a Magnolia subspecies. “ _There.”_

King takes a few steps forward, getting as close as the path space will allow. A small bloom of what appears to be fungus covers the junction between a higher branch and the trunk of the tree. It could be something. It could be nothing. King needs to take a scraping. “I need a ladder,” he tells Tee.

Tee disappears, and King takes a reference photo, aiming his camera at the tree with practiced caution. He zooms in and takes a few photos with and without flash. He rummages through his bag and pulls out his metal scraping tools, choosing the curette because of its curve. It will be helpful to take some of the bark with him. When a step ladder is set up in front of him, King gets out a plastic container for his scrapings.

He climbs up to the top step and finds the positioning awkward. The growth is just a little too far for King to comfortably reach out and collect his sample without worry.

“Can you hold onto me while I lean over?” King asks, throwing his voice over his shoulder. A pair of warm and strong hands clasp around his hips.

“Thanks,” King mutters, leaning forward with his curette extend to gather some of the growth on the tree. He trusts Tee to hold him and keep him from falling off the ladder and damaging the delicate flora at the base of the tree.

He extends both hands and uses his implement to dig at the tree bark and its growth, nudging the scraping into his jar. He shifts his center of gravity back and returns most of his weight to the ladder and screws the lid onto the container, tucking it into his bag. He slips his curette into a plastic bag so that he can clean it later without it contaminating his bag.

He starts to climb down but stumbles on the last rung and falls back. His shoulder hits a solid body. He turns to thank Tee for sticking around until the very end and catch him, but instead, he comes nose to nose with Ram.

He stops breathing. There is really no reason for it to be Ram holding him gently, but it indisputably is.

He uprights himself, noting that Ram has been touching him and supporting him silently for the past several minutes; maybe King should have noticed sooner. Tee would have complained for every second of it. 

Ram’s hands hover as though he frets that King will fall over and hurt himself. Ram’s face is open, readable with brows drawn together and lips parted. He waits until King stands firmly on his feet with correct posture to bring his hands back to his sides.

“Thank you,” King exhales, flustered and keenly aware of how his skin has suddenly caught aflame in light of the fact that it was Ram holding him in place.

Ram slowly nods and keeps his worried eyes on King. 

King suddenly doesn’t know how to comport himself. His brain malfunctions and instead of creating a warm, calm, comforting, inviting silence for them to share, he tries to start a conversation, “Why are you here?”

It comes out more accusatory than he intended, as though Ram should only stick to his lions and their enclosure. Ram’s eye twitches in confusion but, all the same, he raises his index finger and directs King’s attention to the butterfly that has settled on the folds of the sleeve of King’s work fleece.

King smiles for two reasons. First: it is tooth-achingly sweet that Ram came to look at butterflies. Second: it strikes him with childish wonder that a butterfly is calmly clinging to his arm.

He sees it out of the corner of his eye, the corner of Ram’s lip tugging up _just_ barely.

“You’re here to see the butterflies,” King says out loud, almost speaking on his behalf. Maybe they can carry a conversation, at least for as long as this overlap in time and place allow.

A quiet “yes” passes through Ram’s lips. It is quiet enough that King could almost mistake it as belonging to one of the roaming guests. Somehow, he knows that the word belongs to Ram despite what little King has heard of his voice.

“Help me put this ladder away,” King requests, making sure that a kind smile stays on his face.

Ram moves and helps pick up the ladder. They make their way to the office area, the only truly and wholly enclosed part of the pavilion. King rests it against Tee’s desk and leaves a handwritten note that he’ll get back to him as soon as possible with the results of his mystery growth.

He turns to Ram and smiles, “I have to go, but it was lovely to see you.”

King finds himself disappointed that it doesn’t prompt a smile from Ram. He gets a curt nod before Ram turns around to go back to enjoying the butterflies and their foliage. He comforts himself with the image of a soft almost-smile on Ram’s face; if he gets to the point of desperation, he can imagine that it was him and not the butterfly that made Ram smile.

//

“Botany, Big Cats need an expert,” comes in over the radio from an indifferent Tang.

He nearly tackles Frong in his haste to snatch up the reference guide. Frong looks at him like he has grown a second head.

King giggles awkwardly, “I got it.”

“You don’t like the big predatory mammals,” Frong states slowly with an alien concern draping over his words.

He offers a bright and unconvincing smile before repeating himself, “I got this one.”

Frong withdraws his hand and nods mechanically. King knows that Frong will ask about it later and maybe call him brain damaged.

King draws the reference guide to his chest and slings his bag over his shoulder. (He slides an origami lily into the pages of the reference book. He folded it for Ram as a way to thank him for helping at the pavilion that day; he would offer an actual flower for Ram to take care of, but they aren’t quite on those terms yet.)

He wears his ridiculous and eager grin for the entire drive there; he rarely uses the golf carts, but the gardens are on the opposite ends of the grounds from where the lions and tigers are held. A cool breeze combs through his hair as he drives on the edges of the sidewalks, taking empty paths when possible.

He takes a deep breath when he pulls up in front of the main enclosure. There’s an entrance that leads to the indoor housing that King needs to take to find Tang (and hopefully Ram) to address whatever plant-emergency they’re having. He smooths his hair and walks in.

He immediately presses against the far wall. Somehow, in his eagerness to maybe catch a glimpse of Ram and hear his voice, he forgot that the wave of anxiety that always washes over him when he thinks about _teeth,_ the sharp, ferocious gnashing kind _._ He stays to the side, hoping to find people in the windowless offices.

He finds Tang, standing on the opposite side of a leopard. King wants to groan as he approaches, untrusting of the indoor enclosure and the safety that the reinforced observation glass provides. 

“Botanist present,” King weakly states as to avoid catching his coworker off guard.

Tang looks over his shoulder and says, “Oh good, it’s you.”

“What is my expertise needed for?”

Tang sighs and motions for King to follow him. They walk down the hallway; it almost gives King chills. He doesn’t like how the concrete walls and floor make the building feel. He supposes that the department doesn’t really mind it since their time is not wholly spent in a suffocating hole in the ground.

King smiles in spite of himself when he sees Ram standing next to Duen in front of a young lion cub laying on its side on the sterile metal table of the tentative check-up room. Although Duen smiles upon seeing King, Ram remains indifferent and even takes a step sideways.

“A guest managed to throw a plant of some kind from the open-air observation deck. This one,” Tang points at the lethargic cat, “started eating it for whatever reason. We need to know if it’s harmful.”

Duen shrugs, “ _I_ think it’s nothing to waste your time over, but what do I know as the mammal expert on the Veterinary Medicine team?”

Tang shoots a fiery glare at Duen. King cannot read anything from Ram’s posture or his perfectly schooled expression. 

“Are you—” King pauses. “I need to see the plant?”

Duen coughs to cover up a bout of laughter. Ram steps forward and picks up a bucket to hand to him. 

King blinks. He doesn’t need to pull out his field guide.

“It’s ivy.” King almost wishes it were more complicated that someone deciding to throw a length of nearly dead ivy into the lion enclosure. “Unhealthy ivy at that. It might cause a rash, but the cat should be fine.”

Duen looks over his shoulder at Ram, “What did I tell you?”

Ram offers a silent yet annoyed glance at Duen and huffs out, crossing his arms and clicking his tongue.

Duen turns to offer King an apologetic look, “Ignore the sourpuss. He’s angry that someone would be dumb enough to throw anything toward his lions. It’s not about you.”

“Thank you, King,” Tang adds, “For helping to cross the ‘t’s and dot the ‘i’s. I need to go write up an incident report. God, I hate paperwork,” he grumbles as he walks down the hallway, back toward wherever his computer sits.

Ram moves to leave as well, but King catches his wrist. The look of surprise on Ram’s face embarrasses King. He should have used his words. He spares a glance toward a distracted Duen and chooses to pull Ram out into the hallway.

“I have something to give you,” he states, giving Ram an empty explanation. It sounds better than a pathetic plea for Ram to stay in his space just a little while longer.

Ram’s face softens into something less harsh, closer to curious than it is to the annoyance marring his face minutes ago. King can feel the heavy burden of his gaze on his face as it becomes more expectant.

He pulls out his folded flower and presents it to Ram with a smile. He cannot restrain the brightness in his voice when he says, “Thank you for catching me when I fell.”

Ram blinks, and for a brief moment, King thinks that he might have stolen Ram’s breath. However, the moment quickly passes and Ram becomes somewhat awkward and mechanical. King wants to frown; he is thanking Ram for a common courtesy. A flower, even just a folded one, is too much for an act that has already been acknowledged.

Ram’s fingers close delicately around the piece of origami. King suppresses the sigh of relief that wants to escape. “You’re welcome,” he whispers, marveling at the petals on his man-made lily.

King’s heart flutters.

This feeling makes the trip across the grounds well worth it.

//

King whistles an aimless tune to himself as he approaches the administrative building. He weaves between the early morning trickle of guests and keeps his customer-service smile affixed to his face. One of the heaters in the budding tropics section of the primary greenhouse has been—well, King needs to put in a request for someone to take a look at it. He hopes to catch Bohn early in the day, to circumvent the annoying volley of emails that accompanies an equipment malfunction.

He slips into the lobby; he smiles when he sees Ram unexpectedly. He stands with Duen and a third person by Boss’s desk, allowing Duen to take the lead in talking to Boss.

King approaches quietly, hoping to catch Ram’s eye to silently and _personally_ greet him. The third person, the youngest looking of them, sees King first and forces him to abandon the idea of flagging down Ram. King ends up leaning against the Boss’s large desk, smiling warmly at his coworkers and their guest. He cannot help but peek at the potted fern on the far side of the workspace. It looks _thirsty._

Boss salutes King with a knowing smirk. (He hopes that Boss lets it be; he caught King staring once during lunch and jumped to the correct conclusion. He sends looks that are far from subtle to King whenever Ram and King are even remotely close in proximity.) 

Duen makes the introduction.

“King! This is Ruj; he is shadowing us over at Big Cats for the next few days as part of his work-study program. Fun fact! Ruj is Ram’s baby brother.”

King perks up. He has been presented with a delightful tidbit of information. Ram is an older brother. It seems right and in line with what King has observed so far.

It surprises King when the younger brother steps forward and speaks.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” Ruj says extending an open hand toward King with a kind smile on his face. King can see some of the similarities between Ram and his brother. They have the same _kind_ look in their eyes; though Ruj seems far more open and willing to talk, King can already sense how much weight he puts behind actions. King is almost proud of himself; he can read Ram well enough that he is able generalize and reapply that knowledge onto his younger brother. He wonders what insights about Ram he might gain from observing Ruj.

“Wow!” King exclaims, shaking Ruj’s hand. He offers a light joke, “We’ve known each other for less than a minute, and you have already spoken more words to me than your brother has in the past two months.”

Ruj nods and lets go of his hand. He squarely looks in King’s eye and keeps a matter-of-fact tone, “You make him uncomfortable then.”

It knocks the air of his lungs. He can only hope that his face does not betray the amount of hurt he feels. He thinks his mouth is locked into the smile, but he cannot be sure of how far his eyebrows raised. He stalls for a moment and takes a shallow breath, mind scrambling to pull together _anything_ to say to give him a polite exit from the conversation.

Ruj maintains a straight face, nothing light or joking to be found.

Finally, words click into place for King. He blinks and pivots away from Ruj, away for Ram’s unchanging stature in his periphery. To Boss, his only life-line in this painful moment, “Bohn?”

“He’s at the Reptile House,” Boss replies quietly with a sympathetic look in his eyes.

King doesn’t care if he’ll actually find Bohn there. Boss has given him an out, so he will take it. He gives a saccharine smile to his friend before turning back to Ram, Ruj, and Duen. He quickly pulls in a breath to get him through his goodbyes, “I’ll be off then. I’ll see you around. Hope you have a great experience here, Ruj.”

As soon as he takes his first step to escape, he can feel his composure start to crumble. He wonders if this is how Bohn felt during his rude awakening. It is worse when he feels the light sting of tears in his eyes. Some people don’t click; that’s fine. He wishes Ram would have said something. 

King can leave him alone.

It’s fine.

//

He is not all that fine.

He realizes, as he sits on the floor on Bohn’s living room, that his heart got ahead of his brain. He is tempted to take a swig of Bohn’s stupid craft beer. Drinking creates problems, and it will not ease the bruises on his heart. Look at Bohn, sitting there like his heart was yanked out by the bare hands of a stranger; alcohol certainly hasn’t healed anything for him.

_Uncomfortable_. 

Damn. He wonders if Ram ever would have said anything or for how long Ram could’ve remained quiet before he snapped at King. He wonders if there was something that he just wasn’t seeing because he had been quickly swept up in the enigma of the man and the sudden blooming of long dormant feelings.

He wonders on end, aimlessly, zipping through every possible question he could have one day asked of Ram.

It won’t do him any good. An important question that he hadn’t thought to ask has been answered. It strips him of the right to voice his curiosities.

Mek offers him an empathetic glance.

King wishes he was at home, talking to his high maintenance prickly pear. It reminds him of Ram, sharp and guarded with something beautiful in view but out of reach. At least, his prickly pear doesn’t feel uncomfortable around him. Maybe it does and the other cacti are too shy to speak up.

King hugs his knees. Dealing with his feelings sucks, but he can avoid it no longer.

//

King sees them at lunch: Duen, Ruj, and _Ram_.

He pivots around and walks in the other direction, hoping that none of them saw and ignoring the utter confusion on Frong’s face as he walks by.

He and Bohn eat in silent shame, unwilling to talk about their heartache. They unsuccessfully ignore Mek’s drive-by affection for Boss. Mek tucks a pen with a fake rose taped on its end behind Boss’s ear, a cheesy and soft smile on his face. Boss blushes and giggles as though it has been days instead of years since he and Mek fell in love.

King wishes he had that.

//

Sadly, Frong is out. (Thara flounders for a moment upon hearing the news. He awkwardly asks King to wish him well, _just_ managing to hold himself back from asking for Frong’s contact information.)

It leaves King as the primary botany liaison for a few days.

It means that when his presence is requested to supplement a presentation on jaguars with information on forest terrains and how human activity has impacted the habitat transformation and loss, he is really the only qualified person on deck to go over.

It lands him in the same workspace as Ram, which leaves him somewhat numb, unable to be the best conservation advocate that his job requires him to be.

Oddly enough, it is possibly the most King has ever heard Ram speak. He can hear Ram’s presentation on lions down the narrow-windowed gallery; it is a lovely voice. He can drink it in entirely without having to wince away. He will no longer have to rely on fading snippets or the suggestion of his voice. King deflates; he shouldn’t think of Ram’s voice at all.

As the last of the guests are ushered away, King stows the presentation materials in the main building. He tucks the display board into the back office, neatly organizing the props before turning around.

He makes eye contact with Ram, who stands near the entrance of the storage area. 

King looks down; running away seems like the best option. King can’t use any far-fetched excuses to prolong their time together. There is simply no reason for him to be there in his professional capacity any more, and evidently, being there in his _personal_ capacity makes Ram so deeply uncomfortable that he cannot voice it.

King tries to brush past Ram without infringing on his personal space. He keeps his head down, probably looking like a puppy with a tail between its legs. At this point, King has little to lose; he does not need to hide his hurt feelings.

Ram moves to block his path, remaining a stubborn obstacle each time King tries to get around him.

He takes a breath and looks up, trying to find a polite way to ask Ram to leave him alone and let him perish in peace. He whispers, “Excuse me.”

Ram is stoic, unmoved by King’s timid plea. 

It feels like Ram wants to watch King break down and cry. Why else would he refuse to let King leave? His brother certainly made it clear that Ram finds King’s company painful. Ram might not like him, but King never thought he’d been needlessly cruel.

King closes his eyes and steels himself. He twists, leading with his shoulder to lightly shove Ram out of the way if he is going to continue standing there without saying a word.

Ram follows his attempt to exit the room, taking a step back for King’s step forward. His hand reaches out and lightly touches King’s stomach with an open palm. All of his thoughts clear from his head, and his body refuses to move. The only thing King can do is offer a wounded look.

Ram inhales deeply as if he’s preparing himself to say something. King waits, trying to decipher Ram’s shifting expression. He looks unsure, brows pulled together, shoulders tight. He grimaces and squeezes his eyes tightly before settling into a sigh of resignation. He wets his lips with a quick swipe of the tongue, “It’s—”

Ram swallows and brings his hands together, wringing them. Slowly, he finally says, “You make me nervous.”

“I what?” asks King, voice small, stunned by Ram’s labored articulation. 

Ram looks at his feet and brings a hand up to itch the back of his head, “You make me nervous. That’s why… words don’t come out when you’re around.”

King can already feel his cheeks turning red. No one has been _nervous_ around him before, certainly not someone that King is romantically interested in. He feels the need to ask for a better explanation because making someone nervous does not mean that Ram feels a special way about him. Technically, he is pressing his luck since he hardly ever goes beyond ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘thanks’ and ‘you’re welcome’.

The odds that Ram will continue openly talking to him are low. 

“Why?”

Ram lets out a disbelieving chuckle. Ram stops and starts, trying to communicate directly, “Have you—Do you—You’re—”

Ram groans in frustration. He takes a seat on the floor, crossed legged. He scrubs over his face with his hands and tries to explain again, looking up at King, speaking softly from the heart, “You’re intelligent, intimidating, patient, kind, and I just—I don’t want to mess up.”

King kneels, pulling together the Ram’s past actions and present words in his head. He wants to say that he understands, but he is unsure of how true those words would be. Ram’s words only explain so much, and they provide only part of the picture.

He places a hand on Ram’s shoulder, “Thank you for clarifying. I’ll try to be less intimidating, so don’t be nervous.” King almost stops there, but a small part of him desperately wants to guard him from more pain. It slips out on the back end, as he rises back to his feet, “I would love to be your friend.”

He steps around Ram, wincing at himself. He will settle for friendship if that is something Ram is willing to offer. Pruning his romantic feelings will be difficult but not impossible. He thinks.

//

“And so Thara gave me—”

Frong stops mid-sentence when Ram sits down at the lunch table forcefully. His tray clatters, and his food shakes. He sits directly across from King like he is trying to prove something.

There is an unfamiliar and wild intensity in his eyes as he looks at King.

“Are you okay?” King asks.

Ram clears his throat and tries to replace the intensity on his face with an overworked smile. He looks uncomfortable as he nods. Duen, for his part, also seems confused when he finds that Ram has chosen to sit at Frong and King’s table. Duen gracefully seats himself next to King with a kind smile on his face.

Frong _gawks_ openly at his new shoulder partner, looking at Ram as if he has grown another head.

Frong’s story is abandoned, and they eat in silence.

Until Duen takes a labored breath and turns to King, “You’re—you and Bohn are friends, right?”

King catches Ram seize in a new wave of discomfort; he nods affirmatively in response to Duen’s question.

“Is he—” Duen stops and looks at his food with a frown. “Do you know if he’s mad at me or something?”

King frowns. He lets a brief moment of internal conflict pass; part of him desperately craves to help _fix_ Bohn’s problems, to solve it for him and to return his carefree smile back to his face. However, he does not want to be a middleman. He cannot, _will not_ , leave room for misinterpretation or misplaced hope or despair. King could answer Duen’s question and supply more details than Duen might expect for such a simple question. He scrunches his nose and makes sure that he’s looking directly into Duen’s eyes as he says, “The person to ask about how Bohn is feeling is Bohn.”

Duen briefly breaks eye contact to engage in a wordless exchange with Ram. Once again, it is proven to King that he doesn’t know Ram as well as he thought, doesn’t know him as well as he would like to. 

A labored swallow and sulky tone: “I want to, but he runs in the other direction if I get closer than ten feet.”

“Then, do you really need ask me how he feels?”

The frown on Duen’s face deepens, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what I did?”

King shakes his head, “You’ll need to corner Bohn if you are dedicated to figuring it out.”

For what it is worth, King trusts Duen to make his own choices and hopefully make choices that might breathe some life back into Bohn. Where Bohn is taking an avoidant tack in this instance, perhaps, Duen will confront the problem head-on and be a better communicator. If Bohn voices his request for space, for time to repair his feelings and ease them away from the searing pain of being seen yet unwanted, then Duen can give it to him and accept the necessary shift in their dynamic.

The meal evolves into small talk between Frong and Duen. Frong skirts around pointedly asking about Thara. He does not pull it off elegantly.

King chimes in occasionally until it is time to return to work.

As he picks up his empty dishware after wishing Duen and Ram good luck on the rest of their day, he hears it.

“Thank you. Have a good day, King.”

Soft and sweet, Ram’s words make his heart flutter. It draws out a smile before King can reel it back in. Friendly, he reminds himself, he is being _friendly._

He is barely out of the canteen before he starts humming. The warmth in his cheeks is not imagined. 

//

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns around in the greenhouse to come face-to-face with Ram. He slaps a hand over his startled heart and chokes back the shriek ready to escape. 

“Why are you here?” He rushes probably a little too stiff and unwelcoming. Almost no one lurks around the Botany offices this early in the morning. Not even _Frong_.

Ram shifts and looks down at his face, shame coloring his cheeks a soft and _lovely_ pink. He stands with his arms behind his back and purses his lips before peering through his dark eyelashes at King.

His arm slowly moves from behind his back, and he extends bottled coffee toward King, the muscles exposed by his t-shirt visibly flexing. Ram seems shy and unsure of himself.

King takes the coffee from him wordlessly, keeping an eye on how his expression changes if at all. The worry on Ram’s face and tension in his shoulder releases. If anything, it seems to strengthen Ram’s posture, pulls him up taller, indicates some level of pride that his inexplicable gift has been well-received.

His lips tug up into a warm grin.

Ram backs away slowly, giving King a curt wave and half of a smile.

It almost feels like a dream. It could be. This feels like the silent soft gesture that his tired synapses might fire off to sate King’s unvoiced desires. He craves an affection so deep, so implicit that words never need to be said. He wants to be understood so completely that a passing glance carries an entire conversation. Maybe, he feels he is part of the way there with Ram, and that’s why this moment seems to magical and surreal and impossible.

(It occurs to him that, perhaps, for each moment he learned volumes about Ram’s private way of being, Ram has learned just as much from his rambling words and willingness to understand his silence.)

// 

He hears it before he sees the cart pull up alongside him. 

When King looks over, he feels a delightful surprise to see Ram. He couldn’t have imagined that his request for transport over to the Reptile House that his knight in shining armor upon a weakly motorized stead would be Ram. The only free cart must have been near Big Cats.

It surprises him once more when instead of alighting the cart upon stopping, Ram pats the passenger with a kind smile playing on his lips. The chivalry (or more likely the desire to retain ownership of the cart) touches King. A shy curl of hope wraps around his heart. He is almost giddy to spend any extra, unearned length of time with Ram. Their occasional co-dining experiences and King’s instance to be the point of contact between botany and the predatory cat handlers give him some measure of companionship with Ram.

His heart drinks it in each time, and this very second, despite the gray sky beginning to darken, everything seems so rosy and sunny. His heart beats on erratically as their knees jostle together after driving over a rough patch on the patch to the Reptile House.

The heavens open up and begin dumping heavy buckets of rain on King’s parade. The cart does not have adequate windshield protection, so the aggressive and sudden rainfall prompts Ram to bring their ride to a screeching halt. The rain starts to slant, riding on a strong gust of wind and the fat droplets of water spray along his side.

Thunder booms, and King shrieks despite himself. He does not protest when Ram takes him by the wrist and drags him through the rain, running toward the back wall of an electrical maintenance building.

They stand under the overhang; Ram lets go of his wrist but makes no attempt to enter the building, leaving the door handle untouched. It would not be of any use regardless; Bohn is the only one with the keys to this particular door. King supposes he’ll have to settle for staying as close to the wall as possible and hoping that the wind doesn’t blow too hard in the wrong direction. He and Ram will have to wait it out before they can get moving again.

Now that he is no longer in the midst of the deluge and the rain has soaked well into the fibers of his shirt, King feels the wet fabric plastered to his body. A shiver rolls through him.

He groans and complains, “I hate the rain.”

A look of pure confusion flickers across Ram’s face, “Shouldn’t you like the rain? It helps feed your flowers and trees and grasses.”

King suppresses the urge to giggle and smiles kindly, crossing his arms in a vain attempt to retain his body heat. He bounces between his feet and reminds Ram, “But I am a _person_ , not a plant. I get cold when I am wet.”

Ram nods, his expression turning pensive as he pushes his wet hair out of his eyes. 

King hunches his shoulders over, and gooseflesh begins to pucker across the skin of his damp arms. He hears a resigned exhale and all at once his brain ceases its regular functions. Ram closes the space between them and wraps his strong arms King.

Predictably, everything about Ram from this close is _warm._ His body radiates a heat like he is the sun itself. He smells of an earthy spiciness, rain bringing out warm base notes in his musk. There is a fire where his skin touches King’s. His processing skills have short-circuited because his face is far, far, _far_ too close to Ram’s.

His eyes flutter. While his heart and soul want to stay put and perish surrounded by the flames Ram has set inside of him, an errant thought escapes his lips: “I’m cold, but I don’t think I’m at risk of hypothermia.”

Ram stiffens, and an awkward apologetic look flashes across his face. King could almost explain it away as him getting carried away in worried thoughts. Ram is not the type to dole out physical contact without care and forethought.

It is when his arms loosen and Ram’s weight shifts as he prepares to take a step back that every cell in King’s body screams for him to keep Ram as close as possible. He quickly slips his arms under Ram’s and locks them into place, quickly throwing out, “But it’s better safe than sorry.”

Ram relaxes back into the embrace, awkwardness bleeding into a timid smile. He looks away from King toward the steady rain, and his arms tighten to hold King even closer to his warmth.

_Oh._

Ram might like him.

King bites his lips, but he knows his smile will be obvious either way. He hooks his chin on Ram’s shoulder.

Lightning flashes across the sky and rolling thunder follows in its suit. It makes King flinch. Ram’s arms tighten around him, and a warm hand unfurls to pats his shoulder blade softly. He sways ever so slightly, trying to draw King’s mind back into the comfort of being held.

His heart sings joyfully. It has the closest thing to confirmation he can get, and it silently brags to him about how wonderful it is that he never quite managed to shift into only thinking about Ram as a friend or acquaintance.

The sun starts to shine again, and the sound of heavy rain peters off. It leaves the grounds wet and glittery, refracting the beams of sunlight to create temporary diamonds on the leaves of plants and between the latticework of the fences.

It is _King,_ who lets go first. He slowly pulls his arms back to his side and takes a sizeable step back. He thinks that the way he glows at this very second is unmistakable. If Ram has functioning eyes, he’ll know _exactly_ how King feels.

“Thank you,” King says, smile aimed at his feet.

Ram has to clear his throat, “Yeah. I don’t want you to get sick.”

They walk to their abandoned cart in a shy silence. Ram steals several glances at King, cheeks getting pinker every time he looks to find King blatantly staring with glee written in his eyes.

In, perhaps, the airiest and dreamiest voice he has in his arsenal, he tells Ram, “See you later.” He cannot help but punctuate it with a giggle.

Ram waves and drives off into the dazzling afternoon sunlight.

//

It is as close to burning the midnight oil as King has ever gotten. By the time he leaves the indoor gardens after completing his final visual check, the twilight sky has transformed into the early night sky, a strong navy mottled with pinpoints of starlight shining clearly.

He strolls to the administrative center, whistling and wishing each tree, shrub, grass, and flower he sees a restful night after their tiring day. He smiles broadly when he passes by one of the nighttime crew members. 

He checks his pager back into the technology station and takes a deep breath. He is homebound; he prepares himself to run through which plants at home need to be water and which ones deserve special attention today.

“Oh,” Ram says from behind him, replacing his radio onto an open charging station.

“Heading home?” King asks, more hopeful than anything else. Maybe he and Ram can walk to the exit together.

Ram nods, patting the bag that hangs off his shoulder as though its presence should make it obvious enough.

“Me too.”

Ram invites King to start walking toward the parking lot with a sweeping gesture. King clears his throat and feels his instinctive smile creeping onto his face. It always manages to crawl its way out whenever he looks in Ram’s general direction lately. His heart is done being coy.

They walk in tandem without saying much of anything. An anticipatory tension arises between them; King is waiting for Ram to move or maybe Ram is waiting for him to move. Either way, a nervous excitement sparks within King.

The back of Ram’s hand brushes against his own; a jolt of electricity passes through him. He glances shyly at Ram, unable to make out anything in the darkness of the early night. King inches to left and lets him arm swing closer.

Their hands touch again, but this time, Ram loosely catches King’s thumb with his pinky.

King looks at Ram, who looks up at the sky and away, really anywhere but at King’s face. Without adequate light, he can see how the bright scarlet in Ram’s cheeks.

King fixes it; he matches their palms and winds their fingers together. He gives their hands a firm squeeze, telling Ram this is what he wants it to feel like. Next time, Ram can take his hand confidently without fear of withdrawal.

Ram meets his eyes, and the full force of seeing a targeted smile hits King like a train. He reflects it before he can truly process how _light_ he feels. It is like he is suddenly held to the earth by Ram and his presence.

Just when they reach the gates of the entrance, Ram stops, tugging on King’s hand. Finally, he can get a clear view of Ram’s face under the yellow street lamps. Ram speaks softly, hopefully, “Do you have plans for dinner?”

King shakes his head, “Even if I did, I’d cancel them for you.”

Ram looks at his feet and presses his free hand against his face. He sighs happily and pulls King toward his car.

**Author's Note:**

> don't look at me. don't speak to me. i-- 
> 
> i cannot apologize enough.
> 
> i'll link to my [tumblr](https://yehetno.tumblr.com) because i'm a creature of habit. i'm tendering my resignation as a fanfic author. adios.


End file.
